


Small Enchantments

by blackeyedblonde, Space_Cadet_Blues



Series: ✨Babies, Beasties, and Breeding Kink✨ [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Babies, Bonding, Breeding, Domestic Bliss, Emotional Sex, Fae & Fairies, Family Feels, Forests, M/M, Nature Magic, Pregnancy, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 17:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20313346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/pseuds/blackeyedblonde, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_Cadet_Blues/pseuds/Space_Cadet_Blues
Summary: Despite the gentle rasp of wanting in his voice, it's something said with conviction. "We could grow a whole forest together," Connor adds a moment later, even if he's flushed rosy as he does.Hank laughs despite himself, relief flooding through his limbs and wings all at once. "Later," he promises, kissing Connor's temple. "But I think I know where I'd like to start."





	Small Enchantments

**Author's Note:**

> Originally an excruciatingly soft fairy husbands twitter thread co-written back and forth by Kay and Kaye, yours truly. Now formatted into fic form! This was a delight to write and definitely a sweet treat, so be forewarned if you have sugar sensitivity :)
> 
> A/N: As we were writing this in real-world time, the fairy baby made her debut on August 15th (android Connor's canon activation day), so we went ahead and worked that little tidbit into the story for sentimental reasons. Fae Connor presents & identifies as male but does have the equipment to carry a pregnancy.

  
  
Early summer washes across the woodland, warm and buttery wherever sunlight falls between the leaves to cast across the ground. Hank lingers at the edge of the forest with his arms crossed and wings folded, watching onward with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The handsome flower fae is dancing among the tulips again, singing in a tiny tenor as he flits between blushing pink and yellow petals. He’s brightly colored and beautiful with blue-brushed and golden spotted wings, so unlike the earthen culture and colors of Hank’s own people.

It’s been nearly a week now, but Hank keeps catching sight of the attractive newcomer dancing provocatively when he’s out hunting and foraging, putting on a display covered in gold, blue and green glitters. He thinks the dark-headed fae is kind of strange, but he can’t help but stay and watch, mesmerized as those dazzling wings catch the light.

Truth be told, Hank’s never been much of one for dancing. He wishes, privately, that they could just talk like sensible people—but the flower fae has other ideas, finally flitting close enough that he lands in the heart of the tulip only a stone’s throw away.

“Hello there, handsome stranger,” he calls out, smooth chest rising and falling from the effort of putting on such a spectacle. He grins like a scamp, lofty and proud, and Hank can’t help but growl out a laugh at the sight.

"Easy with the peacocking, tiger,” he says. “Maybe I'm already interested."

The flower fae seems to visibly deflate at that, shoulders slumping inward. “You don't want me to dance for you?" he calls out, quieter than before.

Hank sighs, reaching for the waterskin at his side and the acorn cup lashed to his pack. He pours out a finger of brandy and extends the cup in offering, hoping it’ll entice the flower fae to come closer. “My name’s Hank,” he says, unsure of what else there is to tell.

The other fae eyes him for a beat and then flies over, lightly stepping down off a milkweed stalk to greet him. “Connor,” he offers back, suddenly a touch bashful now that he’s in Hank’s realm and not the field of flowers.

He takes the brandy, curling his toes into the dirt. He's never gotten this far before so he stares at Hank's bare torso, flushing pink from head to toe as he sips from the acorn cup. He makes a face at the taste and Hank laughs.

Connor loves anything sweet; he's used to honey and nectar, none of the earthy flavors and drinks that Hank's kind share with each other. But it makes Connor feel warm and from this small distance he can smell the scent of clean earth and pine needles coming off Hank. He thinks of him sleeping in a bed of leaves and moss and shivers.

It’s an immediate spark, strange and silent with its swiftness. Fae folk have never been particularly well-known for their drawn out wooing and courtships, but Connor looks at Hank—different and foreign as he seems—and already feels content that he’s made the right choice.

He asks to see Hank's home and Hank shyly shows him to his burrow among the twisting roots of a huge tree. Hank worries it's not that impressive but Connor's pearlescent wings flutter and the scent of apple blossom and wild berries coming off his skin intensifies.

Connor quickly makes himself at home, nuzzling and rubbing himself all over Hank's moss bed while Hank tries to impress him with precious stones he'd found on the forest floor and by the creek. He has an interesting collection of odds and ends scattered about with his stones and crystals—speckled bird eggshells, whole except for a tiny puncture used to drain the yolk. An old bullet casing, a shard of mirror, and the one thing that catches Connor's eye: a gold nugget.

He gets up to go study the precious metal in Hank's hands; he's never seen anything like it before, living in the berry bushes and among the flowers. Connor likes it, yes, but he's more drawn to the looming figure standing in front of him. He silently reaches up and touches Hank's face without fear, curious.

Hank flinches for a second. He's lived alone for a while, content by himself. But the touch is welcome, wanted. He brushes his cheek against Connor's soft palm and studies him. He's even prettier up close, his wings catch the light through the roots, shining azure and gold.

Connor smells like the center of a wild rose, sweet and light...everything Hank isn't. Part of him wants to turn away and ask Connor to leave, but then when slim fingers brush against his mouth he parts his lips and tastes pollen on his tongue. It’s immediately intoxicating, and Hank tries not to moan as he slips his hands around Connor's lithe little waist on something that goes beyond anything like instinct.

They watch each other, eyes wide, only breathing. Connor traces Hank's bottom lip and then tips his head up for a sweet, hesitant kiss. It tastes like sunlight and brandy.

Connor seems to glow, radiating an amber warmth like bottled sunbeams, and Hank feels his energy as their lips brush together. The spark of something that he didn't think was possible. Hundreds of years more or less alone under hills and trees and then suddenly Connor.

He can't understand why Connor chose him, he has no vibrancy in his appearance, no urgency in his temperament. Nothing to do but look after the roots of trees and plants and nurture saplings. Connor and his kind are the ones who make it all a thing of beauty.

But Hank gets an answer he never could've dreamed of when Connor curves against him, practically vibrating with shimmering warmth in his arms, and says, "You make me want to grow things, Hank."

Despite the gentle rasp of wanting in his voice, it's something said with conviction. "We could grow a whole forest together," Connor adds a moment later, even if he's flushed rosy as he does.  
  
Hank laughs despite himself, relief flooding through his limbs and wings all at once. "Later," he promises, kissing Connor's temple. "But I think I know where I'd like to start."

"Oh?" Connor says, bumping his nose against Hank's and smiling. Hank feels the telltale shiver that runs through Connor's body, pressing tighter against his own, Connor's arms looping about his neck. His old heart beats just a little bit faster.

Hank realizes then that Connor has put his scent all over him. It's everywhere; the den smells so purely of him it makes Hank's head spin. Perhaps this is another sort of ritual.

Connor's fingers move to the dip in Hank's spine between his wings, stroking the softer sun-kissed skin there. Hank's dazed by the heady sweetness surrounding them but far from confused. He hasn't had a mate in decades but he's not so out of touch that he doesn't feel the energy between them. It's that old world feeling, ancient, something like the slow but inevitable movement of a tree as it grows from a seedling the size of Hank to a towering hardwood.

As if they're sharing the thought, Connor whispers, "You feel it too, don't you? Our magic."  
  
Hank nods. "Yes."

Connor closes the small distance between them to kiss him again, soft at first, growing bolder. Hank moves his hands along Connor's sides, feeling pollen stick to them. Streaks of pink and blue and yellow. Connor's war paint, something he must’ve chosen to attract him. Just Hank.

The energy that surges around them just from this small connection is enough to hasten the growth of nearby saplings, seeds sprout and pods burst taking their first nutrients from the rich earth. It's been a while but Hank is finding his confidence quickly. Connor makes sure of that. The small noise of enjoyment he makes when Hank pulls his hips flush against his own gets Hank remembering things he's long forgotten.

Connor's invitation is clear but Hank still can't quite quell his lingering disbelief. "You don't have another consort?" he asks, a bit dumbly, and then immediately regrets it. "Shit. Connor, I didn't mean—"

But Connor only smiles, reaching to lace their fingers together before drawing Hank's hand down to his chest and painted stomach, and then the place where arousal curls deep in his belly. "Why do you think I was trying to dance for you and no one else?" Connor murmurs against the underside of Hank's jaw, delicately licking at the earthy taste there.

"There is nobody else," Connor affirms. It sounds distantly sad, like a fading echo through the hills. How could something so beautiful ever be lonely? "But maybe I'd thought to ask the same of you," Connor says. "You're the most gorgeous creature I've seen in these woods, Hank."

Before Hank can think to protest Connor's on him again, taking Hank's face between his hands and licking into the seam of his mouth. He pushes as Hank pulls in return, and they walk backward until Hank falls into his mossy bed and grips Connor's slim body close against his chest.

_Impossible,_ Hank thinks as he enjoys the weight on top of him, the warm sweet tasting mouth against his own. When Connor breaks to get air into his lungs Hank takes a moment just to look at him.

His soft as silk skin glows with a rose hue and something in his eyes shines like distant starlight, familiar yet mysterious. Beautiful, stunning, ethereal. Hank touches his cheek, his kiss swollen lips. He wants to cry with joy because Connor is here, with him, in his bed.

"You seem to have been mistaken, Connor. You're the most gorgeous creature in these woods. Or on this earth. I actually don't think there are words to describe how stunning you are."

Hank's aware he might be babbling and he's also aware that he can't quite decide where to settle his hands. They trail over soft skin in reverent exploration. He wants to touch all of Connor. Put his mouth on every single part of him.

He traces the edge of a wing, fingertips coming away glittery from fine, iridescent powder. Connor shivers with delight and gasps when Hank drags a hand down to squeeze the pert little curve of his ass, growling in appreciation as he does.

"I intend for you to be mine," he says, mouth hot but gentle at Connor’s throat.

"I am, Hank," Connor whines, wrapping his arms around Hank and squirming against him, insatiable. "Only yours." At the admission of it their combined magic flares again, making Hank's den glow like daylight through a piece of honeycomb.  
  
"And I belong to you," Hank rumbles. A promise.

They still aren't bound by the old fates just yet but it's oath enough for Hank to undo the cord of his breeches and let Connor strip them away. The other fairy is in nothing but a woven cloth and they both tear it off, casting the tiny garment aside.

Connor folds his wings and Hank lays him back into the soft moss, beginning to trail whiskery kisses down his body. Connor's hands thread into his hair and the pleasured sigh he makes when Hank's teeth graze just below his navel makes Hank groan.

It's been so long since he's felt like this. Connor tastes of sweet pollen and sunshine and the first light of spring. Of hope, of happiness. Hank presses a kiss to his inner thigh and feels him quiver.

Connor spreads his thighs and bares himself to Hank without any preamble, already wet where he's tight and aching. "Please, Hank," he rasps, gently tugging Hank's hair at the roots where his fingers are curled. "I've wanted you for so long."

"I'm right here, baby," Hank says, and then locks eyes with Connor one last time before ducking between his legs and lapping at his entrance, dragging his tongue up between Connor's delicate folds to fully taste him.

Connor cries out and pulls at Hank's hair, eager for more, and Hank lets himself be held there, knelt between Connor's thighs like he's fallen to his knees in a place of worship. And as he laps at Connor's nub and gathers the bittersweet slick there on his tongue, he thinks that perhaps he has. No nectar or honey could've compared to this.

Everything about him is stunning. Hank pays close attention to every movement he makes, aided by the connection forming between their respective energies. Connor's body instructs him on what feels good while his mouth is occupied with soft exclamations of pleasure.

Hank flicks and swirls his tongue and Connor whimpers, murmuring Hank's name. The magic held within Connor's body flares bright, writhing up against Hank's own, urging him on, enveloping his senses.

When Hank presses a thick finger to his hole and teasingly presses in to the first knuckle Connor cries out, the grip on Hank's hair tightens and Hank groans. His cock throbs, stiff and unattended. He can ignore it for now, the want to touch himself, to be touched. It's easy when he desires so strongly to please Connor.

Somehow that deep pang of yearning bleeds back through into Connor, the loop of it cycling between them with each pulse of pleasure and magic. Everything is too much and still not enough. Hank finally curls his finger inside Connor and the fairy nearly screams from that alone.

"Hank," he gasps, heel raking up Hank's back from where a leg had draped over his lover's shoulder. "Let me," he babbles, incoherent, "let me, need you, _please_—"  
  
Hank only smiles between his beautiful boy's thighs and pushes his tongue in alongside his finger, drinking deeply. Perhaps Connor hadn't been anticipating the probing length of Hank's tongue, rare among the forest fae, not so unlike the delicate tongue of a hummingbird. It pushes deep into his body, softly divine, and when Hank laps at his inner walls Connor stifles a wail and shakes apart.

Hank keeps up the pressure tasting the rush of slick that coats his tongue. Connor's body arches beautifully, stomach muscles fluttering; he gives a soft cry and then is still again.

He pets Hank's hair with shaky fingers and whispers encouragement, and when Hank eases in a second finger and rubs insistently against his sweet spot he falls apart all over again. Hank presses wet open-mouthed kisses to his trembling thigh, the tension in his own body curling tighter.

"Please Hank," Connor whispers, desperation creeping into his voice. "Please."

Hank wipes a hand across his mouth and crawls back up Connor's body until they're face to face. Those warm brown eyes find his, sleepy and full of adoration. Hank's wings fan out across his back as he stretches, casting a shadow over Connor's face as he leans in for another kiss.

"You'll have me?" Hank asks, still unsure despite everything. "Like this?" _Bound to you_ is the part that goes unsaid, but Connor nods, restless with the need he feels burning through Hank but with all the clarity of mind to know his choice is final.

"Only you," Connor whispers.

Their magic beats in Hank's den like a third heartbeat, steady and sure. Hank would get down on his knees and thank the fates for this gift, but he's already there, bowed low over Connor. He shields his lover from the sun creeping down between the roots as he takes his cock in hand and draws it between Connor's slick folds, trying to stop the tremble in his arms as he does. Connor's breath hitches but he clings to Hank, eyes not averted, staring up at him while Hank slowly sinks into that tight heat until they're flush, bodies finally joined together.

Connor sobs and Hank catches it in a kiss, tears welling at the corners of his own eyes as they connect perfectly. The flower fae's fingertips brush his cheek and Hank turns his head to kiss his palm. Connor smiles, warm and soft, and Hank mirrors it.

Connor shifts his hips after a moment, growing impatient. He lets out a soft sound and Hank presses in deeper, drawing out more needy little noises. Connor nods eagerly, sliding his hands down Hank's broad back.

Hank presses kisses to Connor's jaw and then the corner of his mouth as he pulls back and pushes in again, slowly. Connor's face is pinched in pleasure and he gasps at the same time as Hank does, sharing a shaky breath.

Connor wraps his legs around Hank's hips and they both shudder when he sinks in deeper. Most fae folk fuck at their leisure, fast and greedily, diving headfirst into pleasure ripe for the taking. Hank distantly thinks about how unusual this is, to hold Connor and be held, knowing that they've bared themselves for each other, that Connor's laid out before him like this so soon after their meeting. Secreted away in the underground den away from prying eyes and whispers. It's perfect.

Hank tucks a hand under Connor's back and cradles him closer, letting the soft moss cushion them. He folds his wings behind his back and rolls his hips, tasting the sweet sweat in the crook of Connor's neck as he carries both of them along in a gentle rhythm. Above and all around them flowers tremble on their stalks, something unseen by the naked eye. They feel the magic, too.

Buds burst into bloom and the light around the tree grows sharper and more vivid, as though it has gained another dimension. Connor bites a knuckle to stifle his moans and Hank gently takes his hand away, kissing the back of it.

"Let me hear you," he murmurs, beard tickling across Connor's skin.

"Hank," Connor whimpers, touching his lips. Then his hand slips down between them, his eyes darkening as he touches himself.

A broken gasp escapes him and Hank's hips stutter as he groans, feeling Connor flutter and tense around him. Hank pushes harder and faster into that tight wet heat that has a vice grip on him and Connor glows, skin and wings luminescent.

Connor's fingers rub in hard circles between their sweat-soaked bodies and his free hand threads into Hank's hair. Each thrust pushes a soft desperate noise from Connor's lips that fuels the fire simmering low in Hank's belly. He wants to hear more, wants Connor to feel impossibly good.  
  
Hank bows his head against Connor's shoulder and jerks his hips forward, fast and deep. Connor's body tries to fold and buckle beneath him but can't from the weight of Hank's bulk pinning him in place. He cries out, breathless, and wraps his legs high around Hank's waist, drawing him in to the hilt, finished for now with rubbing himself off. Both arms loop around Hank's neck and simply hold on, desperate, the muffled slap of skin echoing through the tiny den.  
  
"Make me yours," Connor gasps out. "Hank, please. Please—I need—"

"Tell me," Hank groans, fucking into Connor with everything he's got. "Tell me, sweetheart." He's so close he already feels like he's looking over the precipice at an ending so sweet it may kill him.  
  
"Fill me up," Connor croaks, clawing at Hank's shoulders. "Need to feel you inside."

There's something animalistic in it, both of them thrumming with magic that brews like a wild storm now. Hank growls and shoves a hand down between them, and when he thumbs at Connor's slick heat he feels the other fairy shatter beneath him, clenching around his cock like a vice.

Hank feels his climax hit like a dam breaking, quick and powerful. He pushes deep into Connor's trembling body with a guttural moan, awash with the rush of release. Connor's hands touch his back, his wings, then his face.

"Hank," he hiccups, voice breaking, cheeks wet with tears. "Hank."

Hank shushes him and kisses him quiet. Distantly he's aware that maybe, just maybe what he's given Connor might take. It's not as common now—but it happens. Even so, that's something to think about later. Right now he wants to settle with Connor and sleep for a week.

He curls around him for a moment, brushing his fingers through his damp curls while they kiss, slow and indulgent until Hank has softened inside him. He slips out carefully and Connor makes a small mournful sound.

Hank moves to the side of him, settling in the moss and Connor turns onto his side to face him, his beautiful wings fluttering gently. Hank pulls him close and Connor tucks his head under his chin, clinging to him.

They breathe in the scent of clean earth and the fresh layer of pine needles under softer moss. Hank stretches his wings at the same time Connor does and the delicate tips brush each other, leaving Hank's rust-colored wing touched by golden dust. Marked, in a way. He's glad for it.

Connor brings their foreheads together, a gorgeous smile deepening the dimples on his cheeks. He's never been so beautiful, but maybe Hank is biased.  
  
"You have to let me dance for you," he murmurs, letting their noses bump together affectionately. "Not now, but later."

Hank nods; he'd want nothing more. "I'd love that," he answers, kissing Connor's temple. "My prince."

Hank thinks about how he wants to dig out a whole new den for Connor, furnish it with fresh herbs and a finer bed, everything he deserves to have and more. Connor must be thinking the same thing because what new and tender magic they just made dawns on him like an afterthought.

"Do you think...?" he whispers, looking up into Hank's eyes with bright, earnest question burning there. The rest goes unsaid, but Hank already knows.  
  
"I'm not sure," he says, tucking Connor ever closer against his side. "That's for the old fates to decide."  
  
  


* * *  
  
  


Hank enters the den triumphant, fresh, soft foliage in his arms. Connor takes it from him, beaming. His nest is starting to take shape, the base made from interwoven twigs like a bird's; he has padded the inside with whatever soft materials Hank brings him, mostly leaves and feathers.

It's perfect, and Hank couldn't be more pleased. He watches him bustle about fondly. He'd already been told off when he'd tried to help so he remains supportive from a distance.

They'd chosen their new home together, an old fox den beneath a large and ancient tree. It's secure with room to spare as well as being a natural wellspring of magic. Connor has worked hard to bring the outside in, decorating with fallen petals and plants alongside Hank's collection of precious objects.

The weather is warmer and Connor quickly tires. He smoothes out the last green leaf and adjusts some soft, downy feathers before pausing, placing a hand on his rounded belly. It won't be long before the little one arrives.

Hank can't help but gravitate toward him, helplessly drawn back into the embrace of Connor's bright aura. There aren't words to describe how thankful he is, how much love thrums through his veins. Hank wraps his arms around Connor and noses into his hair, smelling wild roses.

They hadn't expected to welcome another member into their tiny family so soon, but both fae consider it a gift from the palm of mother earth herself. Hank lets his hands rest on Connor's belly and feels the magic growing there, too. Steady, vibrant, and beautifully alive.

Despite his fatigue, Connor still loves to dance and sing among the flowers. He's even gone out with his dagger to hunt a time or two, scaring Hank half to death but always returning with something for them to share, bold and victorious. Hank's hair goes grayer by the day.

As the little one's time draws nearer Connor likes to sit in the mouth of the den, breathing in the fresh forest air as he weaves together tiny things for the baby to wear from dried grasses and petals. Hank watches him from a distance, proud, knowing they will make fine parents.

  
  


They fall into easy routine enjoying their life together. They lay cuddled up in their nest until the sun peaks over the trees, then when it's warm enough they tend to the forest, giving it what it needs. Connor draws strength from it, quickly becoming more vibrant each day.

Occasionally Hank has to restrain unnecessary protective instincts when Connor decides to venture out alone. He's stronger than he looks; it's something Hank loves about him.

In the evenings Hank lays a hand on the swell of his belly and talks to it, telling stories with Connor until his eyelids grow heavy and Connor is urging him sweetly to get some rest. He wants his child to feel welcome when they arrive, already a cherished part of the enchanted world between the trees and flowers.

He makes love to Connor whenever he can, before dawn when the world is silent, thrusting up into him while his lover grinds down onto his hips, flushed and gorgeous, wings outspread. His belly cradled between them, bowed low over Hank as he cries out to the fates and lets their bond consume him.  
  
  


* * *  
  


The baby arrives in the night.

Rain pounds the ground outside and thunder booms overhead, echoing in the chambers of the den. Connor cries out like a wounded animal and Hank does his best to help him get comfortable, helping him to sip dandelion brew to keep his strength up.

"Hank, you have to make sure she's okay," Connor whispers, pressing his forehead to Hank's.

"She?" Hank had sensed as much but to have it confirmed fills him with joy. "She'll be fine, and you'll be fine, I promise." He places the acorn cup down and brushes Connor’s damp cheek; he's confident and he hopes his lover can feel it.

Many fae have done this before them and in harsher conditions than this. Connor smiles and nods, his wings flexing. His body shimmers with light and he's warm to the touch. Hank takes his hand and kisses the back of it.

He can't wait for her to arrive into the world. To hold her for the first time. To see Connor glow with happiness.

It makes him ache to think of all the things he's loved and lost through the years, how many times he thought he'd found happiness only to have it stripped away again. But this time, with Connor, is different. His magic's too big to be stamped or blotted out. Hank can feel every bit of it.

The storm rages on outside but Hank holds and soothes Connor through the worst of the pains. When he places his hand on Connor's belly the baby moves under his touch, already strong and ready to fight her way into the forest realm and sky beyond it.

There is no midwife to help but they don't need one. Connor's strength builds and Hank wills as much of his own essence into him as possible, letting it flow freely between them, giving Connor whatever he needs to bring their daughter into the world. Soon, he prays.

It's a beautiful thing, watching a brand new fae be born. Hank holds Connor close to his chest, supporting him there, the younger fairy shaking with effort but still strong in his arms. Connor is quieter now, focused, breathing through the last of it.  
  
"Are we almost there?" he gasps, squeezing Hank's hand.  
  
Hank keeps a soft, tiny piece of linen they've saved open and ready. He reaches down and smiles when he touches the baby's head, nodding in silent awe. Connor cries out again, one more time, and not long after that his lone cry turns into two.

Hank scoops their baby up carefully, wrapping her in the fabric, mindful of the umbilical cord. He cleans her up as best he can, tears welling in his eyes. "Connor," he chokes out, unable to say much more. Connor is already reaching out and Hank carefully hands her over.

Connor brushes her little chubby cheeks and shushes her softly. "It's alright now, hey, it's okay." His smile wobbles, and then he's sobbing gently. "Hank, she's perfect."

"Of course she is, she's yours."

"And yours," Connor says with a watery smile. He kisses Hank softly before settling against his side with the baby. He makes some room in the makeshift blanket for her tiny budding wings, already beginning to fill out, and severs the umbilical cord to free her.

Hank kisses Connor's cheek, holding him close. They watch her for a little while as she fusses, settling in Connor's arms, little legs and arms moving. Eventually she pouts and lets out a whine, evidently hungry.

The rain begins to slow outside as dawn approaches. Connor cradles the baby while she eats, Hank tucked in close so she's nestled between them. Her wings are drying but still so tiny; Hank knows she'll grow into them with time.  
  
"Did you know today is my birthday?" Connor asks.

Hank already knew in some distant part of his mind, but welcoming your daughter into the world makes you forget things in the moment. He touches the fine, golden wisps of hair on the baby's head and shakes his head. "I don't think you could've asked for a better gift," he says.

Connor touches Hank's hand, dark eyes clear and full of love. "You gave her to me," he reminds Hank. "To us."  
  
It's hard for Hank to fathom, but as he looks down at the tiny babe with wings like their own and the vibrant light shimmering off Connor in waves, he can believe it. In the time before he met Connor there were seasons in his life where his purpose amd magic felt futile. Hank doesn't look back on them with any fondness, but it's incredible to mark the change. He's a father again, and a husband bound by love, magic.  
  
Spring has finally arrived.

Hank doesn't want to leave his tiny family but he eventually gets up to heat more water so that Connor can take another cup full of tea and nibble on a small meal to bring some of his strength back. The baby sleeps and they laze together in the soft moss after Hank daubs some of the weariness from Connor’s temples with a warm cloth, passing names to and fro.

"Luna."

"That's cute."

"Willow?"

"Also cute."

Connor laughs. "Hank, you're not helping."

"Sorry,” Hank murmurs, grinning. “They're all nice names."

Connor nuzzles against his shoulder and looks at him. "Do you have any favourites?"

Hank thinks, tenderly scratching his fingers through Connor's hair. "Hm, Rowan? Athena?"

"Strong names." Connor smiles before turning his attention back to the baby. "I'm not sure what she looks like, she's not even awake so I can't ask her."

He pouts as Hank chuckles. "Ask her?"

"Yeah, maybe she'd have a sort of reaction to one of the names. So she sort of picks herself."

"Absolving us of responsibility if she hates it?"

"Oh exactly," Connor laughs. They're both distracted momentarily by the baby shifting; she lets out a soft exhale and settles again.

The color of what little curls she has is obviously Hank's doing, golden like wheat beneath the summer sun, tinged the faintest bit red. Strawberry blonde, some call it. Hank kisses the baby's head even as she sleeps, smelling the newness on her, mystified by her beauty.

He thinks of the other young animals of the forest, half-grown now that they've stepped into summer. The fox kits that grew up in this very den, barn owlets already beginning to fly. And the tender newborn deer, with their long lashes and spotted flanks. The answer suddenly seems clear.

"Fawn," he tells Connor, waiting until Connor's eyes draw up to meet his over their sleeping child. "I already know she has your eyes."  
  
"You seem so sure," Connor murmurs, even though he smiles shyly at Hank, those familiar doe eyes cast low. "I had hoped she'd take after you."

The baby stirs in her sleep again, little wings finally dry enough to see the painted dashes of gold and blue there. There are faint dots of white between her shoulder blades, and Connor touches those as he whispers the name to himself like a cherished secret.

"Fawn," he says softly, smiling when she whines, tiny rosebud mouth working as she dreams. "We love you already."  
  
Hank nods, so happy and proud his chest could burst with it. He watches over them both as Connor sleeps at last, new daylight finally risen in the forest outside.

  
  
  


When Connor wakes Hank encourages him to get some fresh air. He takes a sleeping Fawn and places her in a mossy divot in a large root, the sides high enough to keep her from falling out.

He cleans the nest, adding fresh material and sets about making something for Connor to eat. Fawn whines, then her tiny voice cries out.

Hank goes to her and cradles her in his arms. She looks up at him expectantly, and when he doesn't respond with food she frowns and puffs out her cheeks. It's so like Connor's little pout that he laughs.

Fairies grow quickly. Soon she'll be on the lookout for pollen and nectar and then she'll be hunting insects. But while she's dependent on Connor to feed her Hank supposes he'll have to get used to her being a little grumpy with him now and then. But he has a cure for that.

He props her up in the little moss nook so she can see him and grabs a small piece of azure stone. He makes sure she can see it in his palm then he covers it with both hands. When he lifts one hand, the stone is gone. Fawn screeches.

Hank pretends to think, movement exaggerated. "Where did it go? Ah. There it is." He reaches behind her ear and then pulls his hand back, showing her the stone between his finger and thumb. Fawn's eyes light up in excitement.

"What are you doing?"

Hank startles, almost dropping the stone, turning to see Connor smiling at the burrow entrance. "Magic tricks.”

“I see,” Connor says, coming back with an armful of fresh flowers, some still dotted with morning dew. When he kisses Hank he tastes like wild honeysuckle. “She must take after somebody else I know.”  
  
Hank hums, nosing into Connor’s neck. “You always liked shiny things, hm.”

Even with a new baby in the den, a fairy’s work is truly never done. Connor swaddles Fawn in a fresh petal, knotting a thread of spider silk around it to keep it tight and secure, and then carries her in a sling while they roam the forest. Hank keeps his dagger and arrows against his back, ever watchful as ravens and magpies caw nearby.

Connor’s daily work has always been different from Hank’s. He touches the inner part of flowers and carries pollen with him, spreading it as they go, pollinating and touching anything that droops. Wilted flora seems to sparkle and thrive beneath his hands, shuddering as magic flows through them.

Hank talks to the roots and seedlings, whispering encouragements to them from time to time. Fawn sleeps away against Connor’s chest while her parents work their gentle enchantments, but soon enough she’ll be learning her own magic and spreading it throughout the forest and flourishing meadows beyond.  
  


  
  


When Fawn learns to crawl, Hank thinks he might actually have a heart attack. Sometimes when Connor has gone hunting Hank has put Fawn on the ground so that she can play only to turn around two seconds later and find her gone.

She has a habit of crawling among the dense roots. Sometimes she gets stuck and Hank has to follow the sound of fluttering wings and grumpy noises. Sometimes they have to lure her out of her favourite spots with handfuls of pollen.

One evening, she uses a root to pull herself onto her feet.

"Hank. Hank look, look!"

She takes one wobbly step, then another, wings flapping for balance.

Hank sets aside the piece of wood he was carving and goes still, breath caught in his chest. Fawn isn’t totally sure on her feet, but her eyes are dead set on Hank, determined.

“Go to Papa,” Connor gently encourages from behind her, and covers his mouth as she takes another tentative step. His own wings flutter in excitement. “Papa will catch you, darling.”  
  
Hank holds out his hands and Fawn grins at him, giggling as she toddles ahead. She takes two more steps and then wobbles, pitching forward just out of reach, and Hank dives to catch her but her tiny wings kick in and flutter like a bee’s, just long enough to keep her from falling.  
  
He scoops her up anyway, laughing and kissing her rosy cheeks. “Good job, little ladybug,” he says, prouder than ever. Fawn laughs as Hank spins her around, the sound of it magic in and of itself. “I guess some of us learn to fly before we walk after all.”

Summer breathes out its last breath and turns into the beginning of autumn. Fawn grows stronger every day, babbling now as she holds Hank and Connor’s hands, walking between them as they greet the field mice and the sleepy toads. Hank gathers seeds and roots as they forage, already focused on preparing for the long winter ahead.

This year’s great frost will be different from the last. His and Connor’s time spent underground together won’t be as languid and sensual as it was the year before, but he looks forward to it regardless. Perhaps their nest for three may turn into a nest for four come spring’s first thaw.  
  


* * *  
  
  


Winter closes in around them like a chilly blanket. Occasionally Hank unseals the burrow so that he can bring some snow inside for Fawn to play with. She touches the little crystals, fascinated, looking at Hank expectantly after they melt as though it's another one of his magic tricks.

Hank and Connor secure a section of burrow right next to their nest to turn into Fawn's own room. They sit in the evenings when they aren't sleeping the winter away, constructing a crib from twigs, spiders thread, and interwoven leaves, the materials preserved with magic.

They lay a bed of petals at the base and Fawn is dubious at first. Connor holds her hand as she settles, brushing his thumb across her little fingers comfortingly as Hank tells stories from when the forest was younger and magic was more prevalent in the world.

Connor listens with interest, watching Hank lovingly and Fawn drifts off to sleep, lulled by his voice, curling up under her wings.

They steal moments together when they can, hurried and quiet. Each time Connor curls his limbs around Hank hoping that he'll be blessed once again, and Hank prays that he can give them another.

Being a parent is a joy he'd long forgotten. He still mourns in his heart for what he's lost, but right now he has Connor and a beautiful daughter. He wants to enjoy his life moving forward.

For now, there are the quiet mornings before daybreak, secreted away in their warm den under the snowy earth. Connor sprawled across Hank’s chest as they kiss and touch before Fawn wakes, delightfully naked save for his painted wings, just as fine and beautiful as the day they met.

Sometimes they rise and dance with each other, playful and full of laughter, Hank taking Connor in his arms and dipping him until his wingtips graze the earthen floor. Even in the dead of winter their den is full of color and light—all Connor’s doing, his magic, the gift of their child and a home.  
  
Spring will come again, as it always does, in the wild wood. Bringing sweetness and rebirth and abundance as the old fates stir new life in the land. The earth fairy and the flower fairy stay safe and bound in the arms of one another, ready for whatever adventures await them ahead.  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> we're both on twitter!
> 
> @spacecadetblues  
@honkforhankcon


End file.
